The darkness isn't just around you—it's inside you.
Not metaphorically. Literally. The room hums, breaths of unseen things brushing against your skin. The familiar shapes of your apartment are still there, just barely. The furniture seems warped, elongated, heavier. Shadows gather unnaturally, thickening into corners that shouldn't exist. You can feel them pressing at the edges of your vision, stretching closer every second.
You clutch the edge of the counter, hands shaking. Your knuckles crack under the tension. The glow from your abilities still pulses faintly beneath your skin—like an ember waiting to ignite—but Azael's voice keeps you grounded.
"Don't move," he says.
You glance at him. He stands in the darkness, almost invisible, just enough to make out the outline of his broad shoulders. His hands are clenched, eyes scanning every corner, every shift of the blackness, every subtle ripple that could signal danger. There's a quiet calm about him, the kind that feels impossible in a situation like this.
But you feel the tension radiating from him. Every muscle ready to spring. Every nerve alert. He is waiting. Watching. And so are they.
"They're close," Azael whispers. "Closer than I've ever felt."
You swallow hard. The word "they" is heavy. Plural. Dozens, maybe more, yet you don't see them. Only the weight of them pressing in, the thick, unnatural silence between their breathing, their movements. You realize that the last two months of training—the breathing control, the focus exercises, the push to expand the hollow inside you—were preparing you for this. You feel the raw edge of your power quivering just beneath your skin, but you also feel fear like a separate entity perched on your shoulder.
You try to steady yourself. Breathe. Control it.
You do. For a moment, the room seems to pause. Then a whisper slides through the shadows.
> "She knows."
The voice is metallic, guttural, distant yet close. It reverberates in your skull like a vibration you can't turn off.
"Mira?" you murmur.
"She is not alone," Azael says grimly. "This is Kaelthyr's doing."
The words make your stomach twist. You imagine Kaelthyr somewhere beyond the veil, orchestrating this nightmare, watching you flinch from shadows, pushing Mira deeper into the darkness. You shiver. Mira. The word tastes bitter now, the name of your friend turned villain, turned weapon of the First-Born.
> "She is ready," another whisper says.
"Do not fail her."
The shadows shift slightly. Not fast, not violently. Just enough to remind you that they are alive, aware, and patient.
Azael moves silently behind you, placing a hand lightly on your shoulder. "Don't engage. Not yet. Wait for my mark."
Your heart races. Wait? You want to fight. You want to charge into the darkness and strike, to prove that you've grown stronger over these months of training. But you obey. You've learned to trust him.
The pressure in the room grows heavier. It's almost tactile now, a physical weight that presses down on your chest, forcing your knees to bend slightly. Your hands tremble, even though nothing is touching you. The hairs on your arms stand on end. Every instinct screams that death, or something worse than death, is here.
And then you hear it.
Not a step, not a voice.
A heartbeat.
Not yours. Not hers. Something deep. Cold. Patient. Regular.
> "She is the key," the darkness breathes.
"The one he cannot lose."
You stiffen. Your stomach twists violently. You can feel every muscle in your body coil and release at once. That last sentence is not a threat—it's a promise.
Azael tenses behind you. "They're testing you," he murmurs. "Every instinct. Every reaction."
You glance around. The shadows pool closer to the corners of the room. You notice that the air feels thicker in certain places, like they've gathered themselves there, concentrating some unholy mass of presence. You can sense them now, a network of intention, like tiny needles stabbing at the edges of your mind.
You feel your hollow, the one you've been training to control, stir violently in your chest.
> Open.
It's not a voice. Not a command. Not even entirely a thought. It is a pull, a pressure, a demand that reaches inside you, clawing at your chest, forcing the hollow to strain against its boundaries.
You grit your teeth. You focus. You resist.
"Good," Azael murmurs, sensing your effort. "Hold. Don't let it in."
Another whisper curls through the shadows:
> "She can feel it. She can feel him. The one who gave her life. The one who is not hers to take."
It echoes through the kitchen, through the walls, into your chest. Your hands flare with power, not controlled but reactive. The hollow pulses. Energy hums across your skin like lightning waiting to strike.
Mira's voice joins it suddenly. Soft. Far. Sweet, and terrible:
"You're still mine… if I want you."
You freeze. The shadows bend slightly, focusing where the sound came from, though there is nothing there. Just the emptiness of the doorway. Your stomach knots. She's not just here. She's manipulating this.
Azael steps forward. "She's testing your bond. She's learning how much she can push."
You swallow hard. "Why does it feel like she's inside me?"
"Because she is," he says quietly. "And she's not alone."
The silence stretches. Only your own shallow breathing breaks it. Every muscle in your body is taut, your power simmering just below the surface. You can feel it—it wants release. Every instinct screams that a fight is coming. That if you falter for even a second, it will cost you everything.
Then another sound. Not Mira's. Not yours. Not even one of the Things fully yet. Something behind the veil, deeper, patient. A low, resonant hum that vibrates through the floorboards, through the walls, through your bones.
Azael's eyes narrow. "Kaelthyr has arrived," he murmurs.
Your heart stops. The First-Born. The one who started all of this. And now he's here.
> "It's time," Mira whispers, somewhere too close.
You flinch. You look around. No one is there. Only shadows. Only the oppressive darkness curling into every corner.
Azael's hand rests on your chest. "Not yet," he says. "Wait for my mark. Do not—do not speak my name. Do not act until I tell you."
You nod, though your hands are trembling, your hollow thrumming violently. You can sense them now—not just Mira, not just the lurking Things—but Kaelthyr himself, standing beyond the veil, watching, orchestrating. Waiting.
A slow, deliberate step echoes. Not human. Not fully. The sound of claws dragging over a surface that bends under their weight.
You grip the edge of the counter, bracing yourself.
> "Soon," Mira breathes, almost tenderly. "Soon we'll see who you really are."
You feel your knees weaken. Your power hums like a live wire. Your heart feels like it might stop. You are both terrified and exhilarated at the same time.
Azael leans down, whispering in your ear. "Whatever happens, stay calm. Keep your hollow tight. Watch her. Watch him. And remember—you are stronger than you think. You will not fail."
The shadows thicken. Something glides across the ceiling now, fast and silent, unseen but present. Something else brushes against the wall—a tentacle of darkness, sensing, probing. Your hair stands on end.
> "The key," Mira whispers. "The one who holds the lock."
Her voice, soft and terrible, reverberates in the walls, curling around your ribs like ice.
And then… silence again.
A pause.
Not peaceful. Not safe. Just a holding of breath.
You wait.
Azael waits.
The darkness waits.
Mira waits.
Kaelthyr waits.
Everything in the kitchen, everything you know, is suspended in the quiet before the storm.
You are hyperaware. Every sound, every movement, every whisper counts. You feel your power thrumming beneath your skin. The hollow pulses. The air tastes metallic, electric.
And somewhere, far beyond, you sense the gathering army—the Things beyond Mira, the creatures Kaelthyr has called forth—hundreds of eyes, hundreds of intentions, all converging on this apartment, on this moment.
And you know:
When it begins, nothing will be normal again.
The suspense stretches on, unbearable, as the darkness around you leans closer, waiting.
The first strike has not yet come.
But you know it will.
And when it does… the quiet you've been clinging to will shatter.
You feel it in your chest, in your hollow, in your hands glowing faintly at your sides.
It is coming.
And nothing will be the same.
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